


winter

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Allergies, Biting, Blood and Injury, Bottom Will Graham, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Come Marking, Dark Will Graham, Fever, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Masochism, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Sadism, Sick Character, Sickfic, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-05 19:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19047163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "Sometimes," he whispers, rough and low. "Sometimes I think about cutting out your teeth." Hannibal smiles, and bares them against Will's neck. Bites, to show Will he hasn't gotten his wish quite yet.





	winter

Will barely moves when Hannibal enters his bedroom, a cup of tepid water in his hand, and some painkillers in the other. He sits on Will's bedside and sets them down, before carefully removing the cold compress plastered to his forehead.

Will twitches, at that, and lets out a soft, ragged sound. His inhale rattles within his chest like the air is dragging along grains of sand, and he is pale and clammy with sweat. His eyes open, just to slivers, fever-bright, and his forehead is burning hot when Hannibal touches it.

He sighs through his nose, and purses his lips. Stands, and tugs Will's blankets down to his waist. Will shivers, crying out weakly, and paws at the blankets.

"No, please," he says, weak and soft as another gasp of rattling air. "Cold."

"Hush, darling," Hannibal murmurs, petting through his sweat-slick hair. Will is dripping, and his scent has that particular sharpness of dehydration, like urine first thing in the morning from someone who isn't drinking enough water. Will shivers, curling up on himself to try and keep warm, his entire body pale and slicked with cold sweat. Hannibal pushes him onto his back and lifts the bandaging on his waist, where the knife of one of their kills bit him first.

The wound is ugly, still terribly red and roaring with heat when Hannibal touches it. Will whimpers at the press of his hand, fumbles for his wrist, but doesn't pull him away. Rather, presses harder, like Hannibal's touch is soothing. His lashes flutter and he gasps, groaning, and fixes Hannibal with glazed eyes.

Hannibal doesn't let his concern show on his face, but Will isn't blind. His lips twitch, and he groans again, arching his wound tighter to Hannibal's palm. The stitches in his side grit hard against Hannibal's skin, the slick of his oozing blood and clear pus a bright aftertaste to his sharp scent.

Hannibal sighs, and pulls Will upright, cradling his head to Hannibal's chest as he grabs the pills and forces them behind Will's teeth. Then, the water, gripping his chin tightly and making him drink like one might milk a snake. Will gargles, chokes, but drinks enough to swallow the painkillers, and Hannibal sets the glass back down.

Will's mouth is wet, and he leans down to kiss him clean. He pulls the blankets back up to Will's shoulders and watches him curl like a mouse about to go into hibernation. "If your fever doesn't break soon, I'll need to take you to a real hospital," he says. For while Hannibal is certainly capable, he doesn't have the tools, and cannot fight Will's infection through positive thoughts alone.

Will shakes his head, breathes in unsteadily, and closes his eyes. "No hospitals," he gasps, slurring the words around a dry exhale. "They'll find us."

Even though they'd been careful. Even though it has been years since they've even heard a whisper of the chase for them. They are no longer in America, but far away, holed up in a tiny house on the outermost borders of a town in France. The winter is cold, outside their house, but Will sweats and burns as though they're in the height of summer.

Hannibal sighs. "I'll see what I can do."

Will nods, and lets his eyes close.

 

 

Hannibal manages to find a veterinarian's office, and breaks in, stealing antibiotics and fresh surgical equipment; more bandages and gauze, and rubbing alcohol and fresh thread to redo Will's stitches. He brings it all back to the house and, while Will pitches and moans and heaves with fever, he re-opens the wound and bleeds it dry, fishes out the necrotic tissue until all that's left is red and raw flesh, and sews him back up. He plants an IV in Will's arm and feeds him antibiotics and nutrient-rich fluids.

Will vomits when he's done, and Hannibal carefully bathes and binds him, cleans him up and washes his face, and waits out the storm with him.

 

 

When Will wakes again, his eyes are clearer. His fever has broken, though he's still unbearably warm, and weak when Hannibal comes to him. His head rolls to one side and he breathes in unsteadily, wincing when the motion tugs on his injured side.

"You had me worried, darling," Hannibal murmurs. He sits by Will's side, checking his IV insert, his bandages, and breathes him in, before he removes the drip. He is no longer quite so sharp with fever, but smells undeniably sick, still. Hannibal feels as if he is breathing in vinegar.

Will's lips twitch in an attempted smile. His lashes flutter again, close for just a moment too long, and then he opens his eyes and sighs to the ceiling. "I thought I was going to die," he confesses, and Hannibal's heart beats double-time in his chest. Just for a moment, but fierce enough to knock the breath from him. "I found the idea oddly comforting."

"Oh?"

"I shook hands with death often, before you," Will says with a nod. "And several times during. Now, you wear his face. Or rather, he wears yours."

Hannibal's head tilts.

Will sighs again, gritting his teeth, and forces himself upright. Hannibal reaches for him, cups his sweaty hair and lets Will curl against his chest, forehead resting on his shoulder as Will did before they both fell into the bay, over the cliffs.

"Do you find the idea of leaving me so pleasant?" Hannibal asks, without heat. Almost in jest, though he does not smile.

Will does, though – he laughs, and nuzzles Hannibal's neck. "Would you chase me?" he asks, laughing again. "Defy all laws of nature and physics, and even your own ego, to follow me to the next life?"

"I'd rather you not leave me at all."

Will smiles.

"Your improved state makes you reckless. When you are at full health, you act invincible. Perhaps I should keep you sick." Will laughs, heavy and harsh. "I like taking care of you."

"I know," he breathes. He's limp against Hannibal, meek as a kitten, and rests one hand on Hannibal's thigh. "You like it when I can't fight back."

Hannibal smiles.

"I'm tired," Will breathes, and Hannibal nods, and lays him down to rest. He kisses Will's forehead and tucks him in, and watches with pleasure as Will goes utterly lax, unable to even roll onto his side; merely turns his head, exposing his pale, sweaty neck, and sighs, lashes fluttering.

"Will," he murmurs, and pets over his forehead. Will hums. "Is there anything you're allergic to? I know of some recipes that will help you recover from this fever."

Will's brow creases, just for a moment. He huffs, and licks his lips, nuzzling against Hannibal's fingers. "No," he says. "Nothing life-threatening, anyway. If I eat too much licorice it hurts my mouth and throat."

Hannibal's head tilts curiously.

"The aniseed?" he guesses, but no, he has fed Will that before. Perhaps something in the gelatin, or food coloring.

Will hums tiredly, lets out a quiet little sound of discomfort, and forcibly makes himself turn onto his side, sighing as he settles again. Hannibal stands, and takes away the bowl by Will's bed, breathing through his nose so the smell doesn't bother him.

He goes to the kitchen and rinses it, leaving it to soak, and returns with another large bowl of warm water, and a cloth. He enters Will's room – a guest room, so Will's fever does not color their own – and sets the bowl on the floor, the towel on the side table by his fresh glass of water, and peels Will's blankets back. Will groans in protest, but is too weak to move, and merely lets himself be handled and pushed as Hannibal sheds his clothes, revealing skin splotched with fever, pink around his chest and stomach, pale throughout the rest.

He shivers, and paws weakly at the blankets below his head. "Cold," he murmurs, and shudders again when Hannibal sits by him, dips the towel in the warm water, and begins to wipe him clean.

"Just for a moment, Will," Hannibal purrs, and smiles. His head tilts when Will submits to the cleaning, too out of it to shift his weight or make it difficult. How lovely he is, when he cannot bare his teeth – though he looks beautiful like that, too, on fire and alive. "I think you're right," he muses aloud. "You are wondrous in every way, but there is a distinct pleasure in knowing you are too weak to resist me, right now."

Will sighs, parts his pink lips to show the sweet slip of his tongue. He doesn't open his eyes, but they rove beneath his lids, searching.

Hannibal swipes the towel beneath his hair, cleansing his neck of sweat. Then, down his shoulders, and over his arms – efficient, to be sure, but in no way clinical. He rolls Will to his belly, and climbs over his thighs, cleaning his back with slow drags of the towel, admiring the bead and drip of water that gets wiped away beneath his hands.

"I wonder," he murmurs, when Will shivers and trembles beneath him, "what would you let me do to you, knowing you had no choice but to let it happen?"

"Anything," Will breathes. Hannibal knows that it's true. He is careful with Will's bandages, not wanting to get them wet, and presses a damp hand over them hard enough that Will flinches and whines. "What do you want to do?"

"I think I want to feed you licorice," Hannibal purrs, smiling when Will groans. "Feel your throat, on the inside, enflamed while you struggle for breath."

Will's shoulders heave with a great inhale, and he lets it out in a reedy whine. "Would you fight me then, darling?"

Will shakes his head, and presses his nose to his sweat-stained pillow. Shudders, when Hannibal stops pressing on his wound, and continues to clean his back. Then, his hips, and between the soft, exposed flesh of his ass. He presses with his thumb, to where Will is soft and giving, and growls when Will parts for him. So long sick, he hasn't kept Will open and wet as he likes, and Will's rim clings tightly to his thumb, like it's trying to suck him in deeper.

He obeys the command of Will's body, working his thumb in, and slides the towel between Will's thighs as Will shudders and groans. He is so weak, frail and limp and merely letting Hannibal touch as he pleases. His perineum gathers water, which Hannibal takes upon his finger, and slides it up, replacing his thumb with new slick that he works into Will.

"I'd like to bleed you," Hannibal breathes. "Until your heart slows to almost nothing. Near-death is a euphoric experience, Will; I think you'd like it."

Will moans, softly, muffled, his hips giving an aborted twitch as Hannibal presses deep with his damp finger. Will's fever has made him warm on the inside, hot enough to blister, and Hannibal swallows, his body responding as it always does to Will – eager, wanting. He lets go of the towel, leaves it soaking and rough between Will's thighs; let him turn pink, let him chafe. He unfastens the button and zip of his pants and pulls his cock free.

Will sighs, hearing the sound. He turns his head, shows Hannibal the pink of his cheeks; Will always reacts to him this way, too, red and wet and wanton, so sweet to the touch. Hannibal pulls his finger out, wraps his palm around his cock, and pushes against Will's tight rim. It clings, tenses, and gives all in a breath, and Will spasms, instinctively fighting the intrusion as he always does.

But he is too weak to fight properly. Too sick to resist. Hannibal puts his other hand in his hair to dissuade him from bucking, and sinks in as deep as he can. Will's body is so warm, burns Hannibal's sensitive flesh.

"What else do you want to do to me?" Will whispers, and slides his hands up to grip the edge of the mattress beneath his pillows. The innards of one arm where the IV was is bruised despite Hannibal's careful placement.

"Everything," Hannibal growls.

Will's lips twitch in a smile, dimpling his cheeks. "Good."

Hannibal growls, rolling his hips, relishing the cling of Will's ass around him, the tension in his muscles as they spasm weakly around his cock, as he forces himself back inside. He grips Will's thighs with his own, feels the dampness of the towel soaking between their legs.

Will winces when he thrusts particularly savagely, lowers a hand to grip over his bandages, and shudders when his nails dig in tight enough to white out the skin around them. "Sometimes," he whispers, rough and low. "Sometimes I think about cutting out your teeth."

Hannibal smiles, and bares them against Will's neck. Bites, to show Will he hasn't gotten his wish quite yet.

"Breaking your knees," Will continues, gasping as Hannibal fucks him. "Taking your fingers, knuckle by knuckle."

Hannibal grips his hair, grabs his hip. Not there yet, darling.

"Then I should keep you as weak as possible, for as long as I can," Hannibal purrs, and tenses when Will clenches up around him. "In the interest of self-preservation."

"Bears eat each other when the winter gets harsh," Will murmurs. His hips twitch again, lifting as much as he's able, and Hannibal slides his hand beneath Will's belly, palming his cock as Will touches the wound in his flank. "I'd make you watch me eat your heart from your own hand."

Hannibal smiles, and whispers, "I love you too, darling."

Will whines, feverish again, sweating and shaking. He turns his head to show his nape and cries out when Hannibal bites him, hard enough to add to the circle of welts adorning Will like a collar. He comes with another weak moan, spilling wet and warm over Hannibal's hand, and Hannibal immediately withdraws his touch and fits his fingers between Will's dangerous teeth to make him suck them clean.

He presses in deep, and then pulls out, free hand leaving Will's hair to stroke himself through the final downward spiral, and comes over Will's back, marking him – though, still, careful not to get too close to the bandages. He doesn't want Will getting truly ill, after all.

Will trembles beneath him, breathing in unsteady and harsh, like there's something stuck in his throat. He turns his head and Hannibal kisses his warm cheek, breathes in and smells fever, alkaline-battery sharpness in his hair. No, not quite out of the woods yet, but getting there.

"Perhaps I'll tie you up," he purrs, "so you cannot come for me in the night."

Will huffs, and smiles, managing to open his eyes just enough that Hannibal can see how wide his pupils are, eclipsing the blue. Hannibal cups his jaw and kisses him, sweet and gentle, and rubs his thumb through the mess he left on Will's skin.

Will bites down on his lower lip, savage and strong, and Hannibal jerks back with a laugh, tonguing at the little bead of blood. "Oh, Will," he breathes, and tucks himself back into his clothes, correcting them easily.

He gathers the towel in his hand, and leans down to wet it anew. Will is shivering now, with cold, with recent orgasm, and closes his eyes, going utterly lax as Hannibal cleans him all over again. He wipes down Will's thighs, over his blush-red rim, through the mess he left on Will's back.

When he is finished, and Will is reasonably clean, he rises and pulls the blankets up over Will's body again, tucking them tight around his shoulders. Will gives a sleepy moan of gratitude, and turns his head to nuzzle Hannibal's petting hand.

"Sleep, darling," Hannibal murmurs, and kisses Will's forehead. Will obeys, and Hannibal clears away the water and cloth, and lets Will rest. When a few hours have passed, he makes Will tea that is heavy with the scent of aniseed. He pauses, and tilts his head, considering the ingredients for such candy.

Perhaps it is the beeswax, that gives it its shine. Honey is one of those allergens than can creep up on someone at any time, and affect anyone differently, depending on the source.

He smiles, and returns to Will, tea in hand. Will stirs, nostrils flaring at the scent, and looks at Hannibal with dark, sharp eyes. Hannibal sits, bids Will lift up so he is mostly upright, and hands him the tea.

Will eyes him for a long, long time, and then down at his offering. He licks his lips, and says; "I suppose it's a stupid thing, to ask why you're giving me this."

Hannibal smiles, and watches eagerly, as Will drinks the whole thing.

"Don't worry, darling," he purrs, as Will gives him the cup back. He sets it down, and pets through Will's hair, eager to see if Will reacts badly to it – if he doesn't to this one, Hannibal has plenty more, and all the time in the world to find out what makes Will's throat burn.

"I'll take care of you."

Will's glare holds no real anger, and his mouth twists into an off-kilter smile as Hannibal cups his throat, waiting to see if it grows warm.


End file.
